parking lot of Doug’s Passport Photos and Souvenirs—two police radio cars and two detectives’ cars, plastic police tape stretched across the front of the business. He edges closer and crosses the tape to get a look at the activity behind the plate-glass storefront. Two detectives gesture with rubber-gloved hands. Vince leans forward onto the cold trunk of a patrol car.
The car door opens. “Returning to the scene of the crime?”
Vince straightens up. Out of the patrol car steps a skinny young guy—mid to late twenties, if he had to guess—wearing a down jacket over a shirt and tie and holding a Styrofoam cup of coffee. This math is easier: Cop. Plainclothes. Detective. His hair is thin on top, but bushy in back. It curls up at the collar. He wears a friendly smile, just this side of cocky. “What did you say?” Vince asks.
The detective champs his gum. “You know, that old saying: ‘The criminal always returns to the scene of the crime.’ Doesn’t that seem stupid? I can’t imagine that really happening. Why would you come back? Nostalgia?”
“I guess I don’t know.”
“Well, would you?”
“Would I—”
“If you killed the owner of this place last night, would you come back here in the morning? I know I wouldn’t.”
Vince can feel the young cop’s eyes on him, and he’s careful to show no reaction, no grief or surprise, no lack of grief or lack of surprise, at hearing that Doug has been murdered. Still, Vincethinks back to Ray in the backseat and now he knows what was going to happen to him last night. And another thought catches up: Doug is dead. Because of Vince. He feels bad for the man, even as his mind instantly tallies: sixty-one. Vince feels trapped by the expression on his own face—look sad and this detective asks if you knew Doug, show no surprise and maybe it’s because you killed him. He tries to look concerned but placid, the way someone would worry about crime going up in his neighborhood. “Maybe I’d come back if I left something behind.”
The young cop stares at him for a moment, and then nods appreciatively. “See, I didn’t think of that. So let’s say you got home and realized that one of your gloves was missing. And you worried that you’d left it next to the body. You might come down early, thinking that the cops hadn’t found the body yet, so you could get your glove.”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Shit. I should’ve thought of that.” The cop laughs appreciatively. “Guess that’s why they got me out here instead of in there with the smart guys, huh?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
The cop shrugs and flashes a couple of mirthful green eyes. “I’m on loan from patrol. A couple of detectives got transferred for taking free meals at this gambler’s restaurant. Brass can’t fill their spots for three months, so here I am…fetching coffee.” He offers his hand. “Alan Dupree.”
Vince shakes his hand.
“So did you know the victim? This guy—” He looks up at the sign. “Doug?”
“No,” Vince is more comfortable now lying to this rookie detective. “Just happened to be walking by and saw the cop cars.”
Dupree nods. “Quarter to seven. You’re about the earliest gawker I’ve ever seen, Mr.—”
“I was on my way to breakfast.”
“Yeah? Where you going?”
“Chet’s.”
“Oh, downtown. Yeah, I’ve always seen that place but I’ve never been in there. They got hash browns or home fries there?”
“You know, I’m not sure.”
Dupree laughs. “That’s a long walk, you don’t even know what kind of potatoes you’re getting, Mr.—”
“I like ’em both equally.” Vince looks back inside at the older detectives, who are gesturing behind the counter, presumably toward Doug’s body. “So what happened?”
“In there? No idea. The fellas think robbery.” Dupree sips coffee.
“You don’t think so?”
“There was a robbery all right. But that’s not why he got killed.”
“What do you
The car door opens. “Returning to the scene of the crime?”
Vince straightens up. Out of the patrol car steps a skinny young guy—mid to late twenties, if he had to guess—wearing a down jacket over a shirt and tie and holding a Styrofoam cup of coffee. This math is easier: Cop. Plainclothes. Detective. His hair is thin on top, but bushy in back. It curls up at the collar. He wears a friendly smile, just this side of cocky. “What did you say?” Vince asks.
The detective champs his gum. “You know, that old saying: ‘The criminal always returns to the scene of the crime.’ Doesn’t that seem stupid? I can’t imagine that really happening. Why would you come back? Nostalgia?”
“I guess I don’t know.”
“Well, would you?”
“Would I—”
“If you killed the owner of this place last night, would you come back here in the morning? I know I wouldn’t.”
Vince can feel the young cop’s eyes on him, and he’s careful to show no reaction, no grief or surprise, no lack of grief or lack of surprise, at hearing that Doug has been murdered. Still, Vincethinks back to Ray in the backseat and now he knows what was going to happen to him last night. And another thought catches up: Doug is dead. Because of Vince. He feels bad for the man, even as his mind instantly tallies: sixty-one. Vince feels trapped by the expression on his own face—look sad and this detective asks if you knew Doug, show no surprise and maybe it’s because you killed him. He tries to look concerned but placid, the way someone would worry about crime going up in his neighborhood. “Maybe I’d come back if I left something behind.”
The young cop stares at him for a moment, and then nods appreciatively. “See, I didn’t think of that. So let’s say you got home and realized that one of your gloves was missing. And you worried that you’d left it next to the body. You might come down early, thinking that the cops hadn’t found the body yet, so you could get your glove.”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Shit. I should’ve thought of that.” The cop laughs appreciatively. “Guess that’s why they got me out here instead of in there with the smart guys, huh?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
The cop shrugs and flashes a couple of mirthful green eyes. “I’m on loan from patrol. A couple of detectives got transferred for taking free meals at this gambler’s restaurant. Brass can’t fill their spots for three months, so here I am…fetching coffee.” He offers his hand. “Alan Dupree.”
Vince shakes his hand.
“So did you know the victim? This guy—” He looks up at the sign. “Doug?”
“No,” Vince is more comfortable now lying to this rookie detective. “Just happened to be walking by and saw the cop cars.”
Dupree nods. “Quarter to seven. You’re about the earliest gawker I’ve ever seen, Mr.—”
“I was on my way to breakfast.”
“Yeah? Where you going?”
“Chet’s.”
“Oh, downtown. Yeah, I’ve always seen that place but I’ve never been in there. They got hash browns or home fries there?”
“You know, I’m not sure.”
Dupree laughs. “That’s a long walk, you don’t even know what kind of potatoes you’re getting, Mr.—”
“I like ’em both equally.” Vince looks back inside at the older detectives, who are gesturing behind the counter, presumably toward Doug’s body. “So what happened?”
“In there? No idea. The fellas think robbery.” Dupree sips coffee.
“You don’t think so?”
“There was a robbery all right. But that’s not why he got killed.”
“What do you
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